


Beloved, I'm the Ruin at Your Feet

by Cannebady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Pronouns are He/Him, Crowley Has a Bit of the Self-Hatred, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, First Kiss, First Time, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, six thousand year slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 08:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20757059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: Crowley's struggling to deal with the after-effects of almost losing his best friend and the fact that he doesn't think Aziraphale could ever love him the way he loves the angel. In the mean time, all Aziraphale wants to do is love and be loved in return.





	Beloved, I'm the Ruin at Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!
> 
> Here's another installment of "I drank way too much coffee, had feelings, and now this happened."
> 
> Per usual, no beta, and only the barest modicum of editing that my 2:00am brain could handle.
> 
> Author apologizes for the ten-thousandth time with the undeniable knowledge that she will, unfortunately, very probably, do it all again.

It starts because Crowley is, unfortunately, prone to panic. Not that he'd admit it, even under threat of holy water. "Demons don't panic", he'd say, aiming for an air of annoyed disinterest and falling somewhat short of his goal. In reality, he'd feel vulnerable and, as irony has a way of clinging to him like clothing on a humid day, he'd start a low simmer of panic wondering if his painstakingly cultivated affect has all been for naught.

  
Neither this hypothetical nightmare conversation, nor Crowley's indefatigable optimism and commendation-winning skills of evasion, change the fact that, for Crowley, navigating life on Earth (and anywhere else, for that matter) comes with some extra peaks and valleys. He was hoping for a reprieve from the ever-present anxiety when he helped a mere child stand down Satan himself, but no such luck. He figures after the whole being cast out of Heaven ordeal, and being made a serpent, and suffering through 6,000 years of pining for a literal angel (who can't possibly return his affections), someone might've thought to cut him a break. He also figures he should probably put a lid on this whole hope lark for the sake of his mental health.

  
That's why he's currently in the restroom of the Ritz (which found itself quite surprised to have an extra, very _private_, very opulent restroom, complete with a chaise lounge and cold bottled water) contemplating if he can kick his lungs right in the arse for actually hyperventilating in the middle of a lovely meal with Aziraphale.

  
Since averting the Apocalypse, they've been living in each other's pockets, soaking up the joy of companionship without the fear of retribution from their respective sides. It should be perfect; Crowley's _thrilled_ that he gets to spend time with the angel as often as he'd like. He likes that Aziraphale seems content with Crowley loafing about the bookshop, or sweeping him about London to the best restaurants his (limitless) wallet can support. He loves that he can just look his fill of the angel to remind himself that he's alive, alive, _alive_, and not swallowed up in a hail of hellfire, or reclaimed by Heaven to the only place Crowley can't follow.

  
That last bit is really the crux of the problem. Since the whole "having a mental breakdown in the love of your life's burning bookshop" experience (which he'd say is 'for the birds' if he had less of a soft spot for birds), followed quickly by the "will the love of my life come back to me corporeal or am I _alone_" encore, Crowley can't quite settle his frayed nerves. He's loved sleep for millennia, the same way Aziraphale loves food and books for his flavor of escapism, but he hasn't gotten a wink of it uninterrupted by screaming nightmares in the three months since he walked out Heaven with Aziraphale's corporation, unscathed. Between that and the (unbelievable, _wonderful_) fact of the angel's more regular presence in his life, he's having a real challenge tamping down the emotions he's managed kept at bay for centuries.

  
Despite his usual iron clad control over himself, all it took today was for the table behind Aziraphale to order some kind of fussy, flaming dessert and it was _fire and brimstone and bone deep loneliness_ all over again, and that had kicked his decorative lungs into overdrive, completely betraying him. Realizing that he was several moments away from a very public meltdown, he rushed from the table muttering, well, _something_, and found himself in a shielded room that hadn't existed until he felt it should. He'd seen the sheen of tears in his ochre eyes and had to look away from the mirror and deep breathe until he returned to normal (or some semblance of it).

  
Back in the present, he splashes some cool water on his face and replaces his sunglasses to maintain some modicum of composure. He's been gone close to 20 minutes and it's a shock that Aziraphale hasn't come looking for him. He takes a deep breath while staring down his own reflection. "Showtime", he thinks to himself and puts on his cocky saunter, heading to their table while the opulent restroom returns to whence it came.

  
"Crowley, my dear, I was starting to worry. Are you quite alright?", Aziraphale hits him with his wide, concerned, blue eyes and Crowley feels the cracks reforming in his collected facade. Lou Reed had some rather poignant things to say about power of pale blue eyes and Crowley thinks, not for the first time, that he may've be right on the money.

  
"M'fine Angel. Just got distracted." It's weak even to his own ears. His voice is rough, exposing how close to tears he'd been, but Aziraphale has enough decorum not to press him in public. He does narrow his eyes, which rove over Crowley with pinpoint scrutiny looking for anything out of the ordinary. For a moment Aziraphale's hand twitches, as if he's going to reach across the table and cover Crowley's hand with his own, which is a ridiculous assumption considering that Crowley absolutely does not need to be comforted. Definitely not. 

It's an infintesimally small movement which would be missed entirely if Crowley didn't have a laser focus on Aziraphale all the time. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on where you're sitting), he seems to remember himself rapidly and aborts the movement before it comes to fruition. If he finds anything reflected in Crowley's face (like panic, disbelief, surprise, anticipation, or _blinding desire_), he doesn't voice it and they finish their meal in strained, but companionable, silence.

  
When they've finished eating (really, Aziraphale finished eating and Crowley finished pretending to eat while actually staring besotted and overwhelmed at his companion), Crowley pays the bill and leaves an absurd tip while ignoring Aziraphale's protests that he should pay for once. Once they're outside his brain almost short circuits when Aziraphale casually _laces his arm through Crowley's_ and rests it comfortably in the crook of his elbow, like it belongs there and has always belonged there (and it does, it does, _it does_).

Although they've never exactly been averse to brief casual touches, this touch is warm and intimate and intentional and somehow still happening even though they've been walking for a block._ They don't do this_ and Crowley's precarious mental state cannot handle the ambiguity. There were times throughout history where he thought, maybe, _just maybe_ Aziraphale may think of him as more than a friend (these instances have been universally written off in Crowley's mind as _preposterous_ upon further thought).

Sometimes, specifically when they'd be drinking to excess, he'd catch Aziraphale looking at him with an unreadable expression that toed the line between fondness and resignation, but it was always gone as quickly as it arrived, and it's always been Crowley pushing for company. So despite his unfortunate optimism, those hopes have all been summarily squashed by the angel's assertions century over century that they weren't even friends. It's sometimes all he can think about. _You go too fast for me, I don't even like you. _

  
Nowadays, Crowley's just fine with the status quo. So long as he's permitted to orbit around Aziraphale like a fractured moon, he'll live. But these _touches_, and those _looks_, are coming more frequently now and they're messing with his head almost as badly as the nightmares are. He's also really needs to get control of his heart and lungs and body before they earn him an extremely inconvenient discorporatation. Getting a new corporation from Hell was a process before. He can't imagine they'd be any more accommodating now considering recent developments.

  
When they reach the Bentley, he snaps his fingers and the doors find themselves unlocked and the interior finds itself at the perfect temperature to combat the late autumn chill. He opens Aziraphale's door for him, like he's done countless times before, and Aziraphale feels it necessary to lay his hand on Crowley's, even after all of the arm holding, as it he wasn't quite done with contact yet. This is where things start to go off the rails.

  
First, they're now skin to skin, which hasn't happened in several millennia due to the angel's propensity to cover almost every inch of himself in dated clothing. He can feel the softness of Aziraphale's palm, the warmth radiating off of him, and his eyes are drawn down to where the angel's plump, strong fingers are lightly curling around his on the doorframe. He's suddenly struck by how good their hands look together. Much like the rest of their bodies, they're a study in contrasts and Crowley immediately loves it.

He makes a huge mistake when he raises his eyes to meet Aziraphale's. Those blue eyes are darker than he's seen them since the 1800's (perhaps darkened with something other than anger which is...surely, something) and it looks like Aziraphale may be similarly affected. _He can't handle this._ The murky tendrils of panic laced with self-loathing are starting to grip him again so he immediately removes his hand and moves around the car to the driver's side.

  
It takes a moment for Aziraphale to follow suit and get into the car. If Crowley didn't know better, he'd think Aziraphale was staring at where their hands had been not a moment before. But he _does_ know better and he can't let himself go down that path. Not in his current state.

  
He turns the radio on and is soothed by the familiar tenor of Freddie Mercury. He'd have remained soothed had it not been blaring "Love of My Life" at an extremely inopportune moment, and if his blasted car didn't have it out for him. He thinks the Bentley might be harboring some resentment regarding some fire and explosions and the theft of its crank. He understands the feeling.

  
He makes his second mistake when he looks over at the angel; there's a blush riding high on his cheeks painting him to look both wistful and longing. For what, Crowley isn't sure, but he's familiar enough with the look on his own features to know it when he sees it.

In fact, he's seen Aziraphale look like that occasionally throughout their very long acquaintance. He doesn't know what to make of that either.

  
He does, however, know what he wants. He _wants_ to cup his angel's cheek, run his thumb along the blush to see if it's as warm and honey soft as it looks. He _longs_ to see that yearning stare directed at him. Maybe even, if he were extraordinarily lucky (_he isn't_), a little _heat_ behind it to tell him that they're finally moving at the same speed, that it's okay for him to go too fast for once. He steadfastly ignores that impulse with his meager reserves of self-preservation.

  
When caught at a stoplight he couldn't quite avoid without inflicting serious damage to himself, Aziraphale, the Bentley, and a smattering of Londoners, he sees two men crossing the street. They're roughly the same age he and Aziraphale's corporations look to be. They're holding hands and one is whispering into the other's ear while he laughs, loud and bright. The whisperer's eyes light up with the response he receives and he radiates contentment. Crowley feels the closeness of them like an ache in his chest.

He doesn't realize he's staring until Aziraphale repeatedly clears his throat to inform him that the light has turned green and the cacophony of sound tickling the edge of his consciousness is actually a swath of drivers stuck behind him laying on their horns. He throws a two-finger salute out the window and continues on.

  
White knuckling the steering wheel and pressing the gas pedal to the floor to the point where a less demonically-influenced vehicle may have buckled, he gets to the bookshop in record time. He's feeling the edge of panic ride the coattails of longing and he's almost happy to have a reason to part ways, if only for enough time for him to calm himself down.

  
"My dear, can I interest you in a drink? I acquired a rather lovely bottle of Corton-Bressandes Grand Cru that I'd love for you to try." He's looking at Crowley with those wide blue eyes again, and his resolve to take a brief respite to get himself together crumbles like the walls of Eden.

  
"Sure, Angel." he says. His voice still sounds off and he _knows_ Aziraphale knows. He also knows that the angel is likely plying him with a good few glasses of Burgundy to wheedle out of him what's been going on in his heads. He goes inside anyway because if there's anything he can stake his reputation on, it's that he'll follow Aziraphale anywhere.

  
Crowley intends to head to the back room of the shop when Aziraphale grabs his arm and steers him towards the staircase leading to the flat above. He's been there before, but not frequently. They generally take their respective places in the backroom of the shop instead; Crowley sprawled on the sofa and Aziraphale slumped in his chair looking _warm_ and _rumpled_ and frankly _edible_ and Crowley has to beat down the thought with the vitriol he shows his plants to keep it from taking over.

  
He saunters up the staircase and collapses on Aziraphale's overstuffed, faded couch. It's egregiously ugly, an old tartan patterned thing; worn from use, but one of the most comfortable things Crowley's ever sat on. He can't count the number of times he's passed out on it over the years. So often that the cushions seem to remember the shape and weight of him, molding to provide support where needed and soft comfort elsewhere. Had he been paying more attention, he may have seen the hungry, longing look that graced Aziraphale's features when he found Crowley splayed out on his couch. He would've watched those calculating blue eyes take him in like a starving man eyeing an endless buffet. As it was, he'd closed his eyes and perceived none of it. What else is new? 

  
The angel came back with two full glasses of red wine, gently setting one down in front of Crowley and keeping the other for himself. Instead of sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch, Crowley's jerks in surprise when he feels the cushion next to him dip with Aziraphale's weight.

_They don't do this;_ sit together with their thighs touching, so close that if he just reached out, he could run his fingers through those cloudlight curls, along the soft jaw, drag his fingers against full pink lips. And maybe, if her were exceedingly lucky (again, _he isn't_), Aziraphale would sigh and _maybe_ he'd be able to _press down_ on that full bottom lip, just a little, to test the resistance and predict how it would feel if he replaced his finger with _his own lips_ and-

  
Crowley's heart rate, which had slowed with his comfort, is back to beating a hurricane rhythm against the wall of his chest and he's thankful for the barrier of his glasses. He can tell his eyes are rapidly dilating; both from nerves, from shock, and from arousal that's beginning to simmer just from a few innocent touches. He feels pathetic and rung out, and so, so _tired_. This wild pendulum of poorly dealt with grief and centuries-long wanting is making a husk of him. Something dry and empty and paper thin.

  
Aziraphale, none the wiser that his friend is falling apart, starts prattling on about the ladies at his manicurist, and the stray cats he feeds in the alley behind the shop, and how he has a lead on some new first editions but he's loathe to leave the shop for any extended period of time. He stops abruptly and Crowley opens his eyes for the first time in a while sensing a change in the mood. He realizes a few things.

  
First, he's fairly, _completely_ pissed. Somewhere in the time it took Aziraphale to tell him about the last few days, they'd worked their way through a few bottles and were slowly listing sideways _into one another._

Second, Aziraphale's flush is back and it's doing _Things_ to Crowley's well-honed self control.

Last, Aziraphale seems to be lost in a moment and not a very good one, from the pinched look of his brows and the downturn of his mouth.

  
"Wassit Angel?" he slurs more than says.

  
"Forgive me," Aziraphale replies. He makes a face which Crowley supposes is a facsimile of a smile. "I was miles away. Just thinking about the fire." His voice has gone thin, his slurring very slight and only perceptible if you know what to listen for. "I know this is just walls holding books," he gestures haphazardly to the walls, the floor, and Crowley himself somehow not landing on one, single, solitary book. "But it's- I just can't leave because I can't stop fearing things will be different when I return." He ends the statement staring _directly_ at Crowley, with none of the forgiving glaze of alcohol obscuring his stare.

  
He stops to pour the last of the contents of the remaining bottle between the two glasses. Crowley gets the distinct feeling he's missing something significant, like Aziraphale is talking about more than the shop. But his thoughts are swirling and Aziraphale's thigh is _still pressed to his_.

  
Crowley decides to sober up just enough to not have his words leak out of his mouth unbidden. After pulling a few choice faces to get the bitter tang of stale alcohol out of his mouth, he chimes in.

  
"I get it, Angel." he sighs, "I think about that too. Can't stop thinking about it actually. Everytime I come here I think of the flames and you being gone." He makes a sweeping gesture of his own, vaguely upwards. In short order he realizes that he's revealed more than he meant to.

  
This was a _mistake_. Coming up here was a _mistake_, going to dinner with Aziraphale when he's so raw was _definitely_ a mistake. Drinking the lions share of potentially six bottles of wine was a mistake of a magnitude heretofore unseen by man, angel, or demon kind. He's a maudlin drunk on his best days and being here with the angel while feeling this unstable is wreaking havoc on him.

  
It's a feedback loop; he panics about the fire and needs to see Aziraphale to assure he's alive and well. He sees the angel and is quickly reminded how _hopelessly_ enamored he is. He feels pathetic for feeling anything at all. He goes home to yell at his plants. He sleeps. He dreams of fire and flames and "_you've gone_" and immediately needs to confirm the angel is alive and well. He can't break the cycle. 

  
"What do you mean me being gone?" the angel interrupts his spiraling. And then it's like the light bulb comes on for Aziraphale.

  
Crowley hadn't intended to ever share, in detail, what he saw that night. The angel didn't need to know what his beloved bookshop looked like _in flames_, and Crowley didn't need to explain to the being he was in, well, _something _with that he'd cried on the floor, _screaming_ to anyone who'd listen trying to find his best friend. The hammer falls a moment later.

  
"You saw it. That's how you knew it burned down. How you got Agnes Nutter's book. You were here." It's not a question, so Crowley doesn't answer.

Instead, he tries to make a run for it to avoid this trainwreck of a conversation. When he goes to stand he finds that he clearly underestimated his alcohol intake because he quickly stumbles and would've fallen right on his arse if Aziraphale's,_ surprisingly strong and very soft_, arms hadn't grabbed him and hauled him back up.

  
He can tell Aziraphale took a moment to sober up completely, his movements are sure and steady as they begin to move in a direction, which Crowley realizes is towards Aziraphale's _bedroom_. Crowley's heart rate ticks up again but the angel takes no notice.

  
"That's quite enough for you, I think. Take some time and sleep it off. I'll be here when you wake up." Aziraphale says as he gingerly deposits Crowley on his bed. Aziraphale is fussing with his shoes and socks when his mind starts to drift. He clearly hadn't sobered up enough but he just _couldn't be fucked to care_.

  
In a perfect world, Crowley would've said something charming or pulled Aziraphale down to the bed with him, tangling their _legs_ and _tongues_ and anything else Aziraphale might let him be entangled in. They would've laughed at his antics and maybe, once the laughter died down, Crowley would close the distance and touch the angel the way he's always wanted to. Maybe Aziraphale would reach out too and then maybe he'd say, "Yes my dear, I've wanted this for so long. _Please_." and Crowley would oblige, like he always does.

  
In reality, Crowley passes out cold thinking of the possibilities with a mantra of "_You're in his bed, you're in his bed, you're in his bed_" playing on loop in his head.

  
\---

  
Upon waking, a few things make themselves known to Crowley immediately.

  
First, he's definitely not home. He's never this comfortable in his bed. Not that he doesn't have the best mattress he can buy, or that his silk sheets don't feel sinfully good against his skin. But his bed doesn't have the soft coziness of where he is now. It doesn't smell like old books, and Earl Gray, and a hint of ozone. It takes less than a second for him to realize where exactly he is, and for the memories of the night before, as well as the _brutal_ hangover to make themselves known.

  
With a groan he pulls the duvet above his head, blocking out the warm rays from the Sun (and curses himself for making the damn thing in the first place back when he was responsible for it), and cocooning himself in warmth. And it's _so warm_ under here. The serpent in him stretches languidly and turns onto his side, rolling his back and shoulders until he comes into contact with something solid. The solid thing also happens to be the cortex of the heat that's warming him head to toe. It also happens to be _Aziraphale_, which is -

  
_Something_.

  
In order to process _anything at all_ he has to get rid of the pounding in his head. Since the aversion of the End Times, he's been fastidious about not drawing any infernal attention. That being said, there are _Important Things_ he has to work through, rather immediately, so he wills his headache and nausea into the pit they crawled out of and, promptly, enters a complete, full scale panic attack. _Fucking wonderful. _

  
Before he knows it he's breathing heavily, and his heart is racing, and he _can't_. He's managed to keep himself together until now, but everything is just _too much_. He feels like he can't take comfort in the bookshop because all it reminds him of is the crushing _emptiness_, the chasm of the world he saw when he thought Aziraphale was gone. And now, he should be happy. They spend every damn day together, but it's still _not enough_.

  
Nothing ever has been. When he was a literal angel bathed in God's love it wasn't enough, and when he was cast out and his wings burned black and he made himself commendable by Hell's standards for his mischievous deeds it _wasn't enough_, and when Aziraphale sheltered him with his wing, mere moments after meeting him, _a literal demon_, it wasn't enough. And now the angel has allowed him in his bed, into his home, and it's _**still not enough**_.

  
The angel is a being of selfless love, and Crowley's brand of love isn't selfless. But that's what it is; it's love. Horrible, awful, consuming, love, love, _love_. But if Aziraphale's love could be likened to a warm summer day; bright, fresh, and all-encompassing, then Crowley's is a flash flood. It's roaring, speeding, endless depths; cold churning and leveling it's path and leaving all behind it in _ruin_. Aziraphale's love bolsters, and Crowley's _consumes_.

  
That's how he's feeling right now, actually; as his heart is racing and his lungs won't take in enough air. Decorative as they are, he can feel his body respond; can feel the shaking, can see his vision start to grey out at the edges. It feels like he's being _consumed_ by fear, and hope, and his _constantly-too-high expectations_.

  
Suddenly, he's surrounded by warmth. There are those same strong, soft arms wrapping him up, safe and sound, pulling him from the crushing depths into the soft light of day. The comfort of the duvet is replaced by the opalescent sheen of heavenlight wings. Aziraphale tucks Crowley's face into his neck and lets him breathe him in. The esoteric depth of him.

  
"Oh my dear, how didn't I see this? You've been suffering, poor darling. Try to relax, I'm here." he coos at Crowley, and despite himself Crowley takes comfort in it. Allows himself the indulgence of the angel's kind words. Lets himself be sheltered by those wings again. And finally, he lets himself _sob_. Not the heaving, wracking sobs of a being on the brink (covered in water, surrounded by flames; a harsh juxtaposition as he cursed their sides for his misfortune), but the quiet sobs of someone coming to terms with grief stuck in limbo that never went to seed.

  
There's a hand stroking his hair and another stroking his back. He finds that his hands are tangled helplessly in soft tartan pajamas and that he's pushing his _entire body_ into his angel; trying to convince himself that this is real and they're alive and it's _okay_ if this is all he ever has as long as he's alive.

  
"I'm sorry, Crowley. I've been unforgivably stupid. I should have known, dear, I'm so sorry." And if he didn't know better he'd think Aziraphale was as affected as he was. _But he does know better._

  
His breathing is starting to normalize and he promises that he'll move soon, put some space between himself and Aziraphale in just a moment. He wants to commit the feeling to memory; the softness of the angel, his smell, the way his hands feel like they were _meant_ to hold him like this. When he runs out of excuses to remain where he is, he moves to get up.

  
Aziraphale removes the hand in Crowley's hair and his heart breaks just a little that it's over already. But Aziraphale, always surprising, only moves his hand to Crowley's cheek. It's so close to his drunken musings the night before that he let's out a small sob, bordering on a whimper, as Aziraphale's thumb wipes an errant tear from under his eye. He can't bring himself to look up. He doesn't know what he'll find reflected in those beloved eyes and he'd rather stay suspended in this liminal space then have to have his worst fears confirmed.

  
"Dearest, please look at me." Aziraphale says so quietly that Crowley almost thinks he imagined it. Then the fact that Aziraphale called him _Dearest_ (like he's something to be held close and squandered) hits him like a kick to the solar plexus and his eyes shoot up to stare into Aziraphale's.

  
"_What_?" His voice comes out rough and low. Disbelieving and full of awe.

  
"Oh, love. I'm so sorry I didn't do a better job of letting you know." The hand at his cheek is _stroking_ again. His hands ache as they untangle their grip on the front of Aziraphale's shirt. One comes up to grab onto the wrist of the hand so gently caressing the mark signifying him a serpent, too gentle a touch to be laid on a creature like him, and the other rests on the pillow beside them.

He's effectively caging Aziraphale in, but he _can't possibly move_. He's stopped time before and wouldn't be shocked to find out he'd done it again. He knows what he's hearing but it _can't_. Aziraphale _can't possibly_-

"I can, possibly. In fact, I can _definitely_." Aziraphale whispers near his ear. When had they gotten so close?

  
It's now that he realizes he just may have, _maybe_, been saying a lot of things out loud. It's irritating how often anxiety causes his subtext to come out as text.

"But not like I do," he says finally. "You love me like you love all things. I love you like-" he trails off searching for the right words.

  
"I love you to_ destruction_." He finally chokes out. 

  
"_Nonsense_," Aziraphale say with righteous conviction. "You've been telling me for centuries in the kindest of ways. The most _selfless_ of ways. You love the way humans aspire to and you love the way most angels should but fall short of. You rare, _wonderful_ creature. I'm so sorry it took me so long to catch up." His eyes are red-rimmed and swimming and Crowley's self-control is waning _rapidly_.

  
"_Angel_," his breath rushes out of him and he meets Aziraphale's eyes again, not realizing that he'd closed his own. "_Please_, either tell me I can or tell me to stop. I need to know, I-", he's breathing heavily again but for a host of other reasons. Everything he's ever wanted is _right here_ and there's a wild, incandescent, _shot-in-the-dark chance_ that he could have it.

  
"Crowley, my love, _please_ kiss me." Aziraphale says. His eyes are full of love, and longing, and _fucking finally_, the heat Crowley's craved. With a groan he pulls himself up to straddle the angels lap. Aziraphale's hand falls to his waist while the other wraps high around his shoulders, fingers burying themselves in short, redsilk strands.

  
For his part, Crowley places one hand on the angel's cheek, like he's dreamt about, and let's the other perch at his waist, feeling that intoxicating warmth and the gentle give of him.

  
He moves in _so slowly_, giving Aziraphale every chance to back out, to come to his senses and tell Crowley to get out and never return. Instead, Aziraphale's breath catches when he sees Crowley's intent and meets him halfway.

The first touch of lips is a shock to the system. It's far from his first kiss, and appears to be far from Aziraphale's if his technique is anything to go by, but it's a damn _revelation_. Aziraphale's full, pink bottom lip gives _beautifully_ under Crowley's teeth, and when he moves the hand at the angel's cheek back into those ice blonde curls, angles his head, and pulls him close in earnest, Aziraphale gifts him with a deep, _desperate_ moan that sets Crowley's body alight.

  
"_Fuck_ Angel" he moans in response, and kisses him with as much pent up passion as he can muster (which is, actually, _quite a bit_). He melts against the angel and is thrilled to find that Aziraphale kisses with his whole body. His hands smooth down Crowley's back, over his hips, and up his sides, back into his hair. When he migrates to Aziraphale's neck and places a wet kiss under his ear, followed by a biting suck, Aziraphale's fist clenches in his hair and _tugs_ and _oh fuck yes._

  
He let's out a filthy moan and rolls his hips against the angel. While initially sexless, Crowley had chosen to make an effort quite some time ago when public bathing was popular and having, well, nothing there would've drawn a bit too much attention. For the better part of history (barring a few years around Golgotha and some very interesting experiences at Woodstock in the late 1960's), Crowley's tended to go for a cock. Other than the simplicity of it, the world has always been kinder to those who are male presenting so it certainly makes things easier.

  
That being said, the enthusiastic snogging is really, _very much_, doing it for him and he realizes that Aziraphale must know at this point. This isn't particularly problematic as 1) Crowley would quite like to solve this problem _cooperatively_, if you catch his drift, 2) Aziraphale makes a beautiful little gasp when he feels the effect he's had on Crowley's corporation, and 3) it feels _bloody fantastic_ to rut against the angel. He'd be ecstatic, except that he isn't finding an answering hardness where he'd expect it. 

  
For his own sanity, he never spent much time thinking about what he may find between the angel's legs, if there was indeed _anything_ to be found. That way lies madness. But, considering that the angel has consistently presented male for 6,000 years, he kind of figured that he'd have the associated equipment. He starts to spiral momentarily; what if Aziraphale _isn't into this_? Is Aziraphale just going along with this is some misguided attempt to soothe him?

  
He pulls his head back from where he was sucking at Aziraphale's collarbone and he's shocked by the look on the Angel's face. It's unmistakable _want. _Any concerns he had before are banished because Aziraphale looks _debauched_ and _very happy about it_.

That blush that has driven Crowley to distraction is back in full force and his blue eyes are dark like they were outside of the Bentley, but with burning _desire_ behind them.

He's seen that look in the eyes of humans before they willingly damned their souls for a romp with him, but he never expected he'd see that look on Aziraphale's face. That he would've put it there with just some clothed snogging.

  
He _has_ to kiss him again. He pours his longing, his love, and the _goddamn ruin_ of him into Aziraphale. He hopes he can feel it, that he sees how he's broken Crowley apart over millennia and put him back together, better than new.

  
Aziraphale starts to unbutton the shirt Crowley's wearing and he looks down to see it. In addition to the surprise of Aziraphale _unbuttoning his shirt at all_, he also realizes that he is definitely not wearing his own clothes. The shirt is billowy on him and a slightly off-white. It's worn in and soft and smells like Aziraphale.

  
"Angel, not that I'm complaining, but why am I wearing your shirt?" he says breathlessly into the minute space between them.

  
If at all possible, Aziraphale blushes further. "You were very drunk, my dear. I wanted you to be comfortable. I wasn't sure what you preferred, so I performed a small miracle. It's one of my old shirts, I hope you don't mind. I didn't do anything untoward-" he's rambling. It's _fucking adorable_. Also, the idea that he's wearing only Aziraphale's shirt and his skin tight boxer briefs is _blazingly hot_ in a way he wouldn't have expected.

  
Aziraphale seems to agree, because he takes a second to drink him in when he gets the buttons on the oxford undone. Something about the contrast of the light fabric on Crowley's slightly golden skin, and the really, very, extremely tight undergarments obscenely tented with Crowley's arousal sends Aziraphale into a near frenzy.

  
Aziraphale's enthusiasm works in a feedback loop with the demon's, and before he knows it he's naked as the day he was brought into creation and working to divest Aziraphale of his horrible, _soft_, terrible, _perfect_ pajamas. When he gets the shirt buttons undone, Aziraphale seems hesitant for a moment. Crowley pauses, wondering what he did wrong, before the memory of that _bastard_ Gabriel strikes him. If he ever meets the archangel again, things will be _ugly_. His angel is perfect, flawless, the loveliest creature he's ever laid eyes on and today, _he'll know it_. Crowley will make sure of it. 

  
"_Beautiful_, Angel. You're so beautiful." he whispers reverently, because Aziraphale_ is._ He's all curves, and pink-gold skin, with lovely golden lines surrounding his softest parts. His plump stomach is adorable and bite-able, and something Crowley wants to sink his hands and definitely his teeth into. Don't even get him started on those thighs and that arse. If he starts, he's not sure he could stop. 

  
Aziraphale's hair is a wreck and his eyes are like the sky right after it rains and the sun sets the world ablaze. His lips are kissed red and _Crowley did that_. He did that because Aziraphale _wanted him to_. Because he _asked Crowley to kiss him_ and now it looks like he's going to let Crowley do a _whole lot more_.

He lowers himself and presses his chest to Aziraphale's, skin-to-skin for the second time in two days. Crowley's never been so lucky in his blessed life.

They both let out small, wanton sounds as Crowley kisses his way down Aziraphale's neck, biting at his collarbones again and leaving small red marks. He laves over a nipple with his (very much forked now) tongue and relishes in the full body writhe Aziraphale succombs to in the wake of it beneath him. His hands reach the angel's waistband and he looks up to Aziraphale for permission. If he wants Crowley to stop, he will. He'd never force this. It might kill him, but he'd do it.

  
Luckily, Aziraphale gives him a nod, while looking a bit nervous, and Crowley slowly starts to pull the pants down his legs. He realizes, quickly, that his earlier concern over Aziraphale's state of arousal was misplaced.

Where Crowley had expected a cock (or nothing at all) is the prettiest, pink cunt; framed by a neat thatch of soft blonde hair, the lips are already glistening. _He's wet_. He's wet because _Crowley kissed him_, and _rubbed against him_, and because he _wants Crowley too_.

He's dizzy with the rush of arousal and pride that shoots through him at the thought. He tears the pants the rest of the way off, ignoring Aziraphale's indignant yelp in favor of laying frantic kisses up one luscious thigh, confidence building as he sees the evidence of Aziraphale's arousal.

  
Crowley's the original tempter, the Serpent of Eden, and if there's ever been a place for his silver tongue, it's here and now and between the frankly _pornographic_ thighs bracketing his head. 

  
"Is thisss for me?" he didn't mean for the sibilance to creep in, but he's overwhelmed and Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind. If anything, it seems to ratchet up the angel's response a bit. Which is, _something_ and should very much be explored more deeply at another time when his brain isn't sharing a blood source with his cock (and rapidly losing the fight for resources). 

  
"It isss, isn't it? So pretty. Just _perfect_. Can I taste you Angel?", he hisses it out low and gravelly just to see what kind of reaction he can get. Aziraphale groans aloud.

  
"Yes, _please_ Crowley. I want you to," he cuts off on another groan as Crowley dives in between the angel's legs. He takes a deep breath in, smelling the sweet musk of him before taking a tentative lick from his entrance to his clit. _Fucking delicious. _

He props himself on his forearm and uses his other hand to spread open the angel's lips. He's slick, the light catching the sheen of his juices, and Crowley is _possessed_. He takes another languorous lick, focusing on the angel's clit causing Aziraphale to make a desperate noise. Both of his hands come to fist in Crowley's hair, just this side of too tight and Crowley moans into the earthy center of him.

  
"Crowley, _oh_", the angel breathes and gently pulls his head in closer. It's been a while since Crowley's done this with a cunt but he remembers how much he _loves_ it, how much he enjoyed bringing his partners off _again and again_. One of the benefits of this configuration; _multiple orgasms_.

  
On a whim, he licks the underside of Aziraphale's clit, pulling the small nub into his mouth and sucking lightly. He's rewarded with Aziraphale's back arching clear off of the mattress and him very nearly cutting off Crowley's oxygen with how tight he pulls him to him. Luckily, breathing is optional for demons.

  
He's _wild_ with it now, rolling his hips up into Crowley's face, clearly chasing the tails of his climax. And Crowley wants to give it to him. Wants to give him _every blessed thing_ he could ever want.

  
"Crowley, _please_, your fingers, _please_", Aziraphale is begging above him. Crowley quickly obliges, using Aziraphale's own slick to coat his fingers. He pushes one in slowly, feeling the tight clutch of him. He crooks the finger lightly and moans when Aziraphale clutches his head with his legs for a moment, abandoning all decorum.

  
"Yes, my dear, yes. _More_!" Crowley pulls the finger out and pushes another back in along with it and Aziraphale _squirms_, bearing down on his fingers while trying to press up into his ministrations on his clit. He can feel the tremors in the angel's legs reflected in his inner walls and knows he's close. Knows that if he pushes his fingers in, finds the spongy spot inside of him, it'll be all over, and he's desperate to feel the angel fall apart around him.

  
"That's it Angel, come for me. Come all over my hand. I want you to." He applies his mouth back to Aziraphale's clit and his angel _wails_ and comes hard, gripping Crowley's fingers so tight that he almost strokes out from arousal, fresh juices coating Crowley's hand to the wrist.

  
He gently pulls his fingers out and sits up, looking Aziraphale in the eye as he licks his hand clean.

In his haste to attend to Aziraphale, Crowley had forgotten completely about his own hardness, which was currently making a fair show at the ability to cut glass.

  
Still shaking slightly, Aziraphale grabs Crowley's hand and pulls him up from where he was and down on top of him. He kisses him deep, licking the taste of himself from Crowley's mouth. Drinking down Crowley's desperate moans as he pushes his hips up against the demon's and _wraps those gorgeous thighs around his hips_. He realizes belatedly what Aziraphale is going for and, again, he thinks the might discorporate on the spot.

  
"Angel, do you want-, _oh fuck, can I?_ Only if you want to, but _fuck_, please Aziraphale, can I fuck you?" he knows he's begging but it's fine. He'll beg if that's what Aziraphale wants. If that's what'll allow him to be connected to the angel like this, if that'll allow him to bury himself in that perfect, wet warmth.

  
"Yes, _God yes_." He sounds wrecked and overwhelmed, to the point of blaspheming, and Crowley wants to be sure that the angel isn't just trying to appease him.

  
"Are you sure, Angel? We can do something else, or I can take care of this. Only if you want to." It's an effort that takes all of his infernal power, but he holds his hips steady, mere inches from the angel's perfect cunt.

  
In response, Aziraphale angles his hips, and pulls Crowley closer to him. "Perhaps I wasn't clear. _Fuck me Crowley._", Aziraphale grinds out the words and Crowley, on a growl that's more demon than human, pushes just the tip inside. Immediately, he has to reach down and grab the base of his cock and give it a squeeze.

  
His cunt is so wet; it's warm and the tightest thing he's ever felt around his cock and if he isn't careful this will be _over_ before it begins.

  
"Fuck Angel, you feel _amazing_. Gotta take it slow or I won't last", he whispers frantically as he slowly, _so fucking slowly,_ pushes in to the hilt. Aziraphale's moan is heady and so satisfied that it blows Crowley's mind again. "Oh fuck," he breathes, close to outright panting when he feels Aziraphale clench around him reflexively, "This might be fast." He hears a desperate groan and only realizes after that it was his. Aziraphale has his eyes screwed shut, is white knuckling the sheets, and letting out small whimpers at the end of each rapid breath. And isn't that a whole mindfuck of a _Thing_? 

  
Crowley's done this to his angel. Aziraphale looks wrecked and ruined and so fucking beautiful because of Crowley. _Incredible_.

  
Finally having his bearings, Crowley withdraws and rolls his hips forward and Aziraphale matches his pace. He grabs Aziraphale's thigh with one hand, squeezing to feel the pleasant give, and places the next beside Aziraphale's head as he pushes them together. Millions of points of contact between their bodies; billions of nerves singing and sparking, coalescing into a fixed point. They're hovering at the event horizon, breath mixing between them.

  
He rests his head against Aziraphale's, moving the hand from his thigh to his clit to rub circles in time with his thrusts.

  
Aziraphale whines, high and reedy, and pushes up against Crowley as much as he can. The change in angle has him brushing against that soft spot inside of the angel and he can feel him getting tighter, knows it's only a matter of moments.

  
"I'm close Angel, really close", he groans out, rolling into a moan that comes from deep in his chest.

  
"Crowley, please, I'm going to come. You're so good, you feel _divine. Don't stop_!" And he doesn't, doesn't think he could if he tried, buried as deep as he is in his angel. He growls and angles his hips to strike that spot, nice and deep, and Aziraphale nearly _screams_ as he comes for the second time, and Crowley feels like he's pulling his orgasm from him, from the depths of him.

  
He cries out and buries his head in Aziraphale's neck, right where he was, hours, days, _centuries_ ago when this all began.

  
The ride their climaxes out together, running reverent hands over beloved skin, murmuring encouragements and praises.

  
\---

  
They take the time to clean up the human way. It's disgustingly domestic; Crowley brings a warm cloth to clean Aziraphale up after a quick jaunt to the bathroom to do the same for himself. Aziraphale had insisted on a bath after (because _of course_ he did) and his bathroom was surprised to find itself in possession of a large, porcelain tub big enough for many more than two.

  
Crowley's back is against the water-warmed porcelain, Aziraphale between his legs while they languidly drag warm hands over warm skin.

  
"I love you. Fuck, I love you so much." He says when he feels like he's just on the edge of sleep.

  
He figures it's bit of a redundant point now, considering, but the words are clawing their way out anyway and he just can't be arsed to keep them down anymore. It helps that he can't see Aziraphale's face from this angle.

  
"Oh, Crowley, I hoped you might. You must know, I love you darling, with all I am." And Aziraphale looks so _happy_, so content here in his arms. He doesn't feel worthy, but he thinks, _maybe_, he might be able to earn it.

  
The angel turns in his arms, brings his arms around Crowley's neck, and lays a passionate kiss on him. It's deep with emotion, and just filthy enough to get Crowley thinking about a second round.

  
When they break apart, both flushed from arousal and the warm water, Aziraphale breaks into a smile that could've lit up the dark ages. And there, in a flat above a bookshop in Soho, the first day of the rest of their lives begins for real.


End file.
